


Murderer

by anesor



Series: Childe Anakin From the Dark Tower Came [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Tatooine, dark humor has its place, post-ROTS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 08:51:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14667585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anesor/pseuds/anesor
Summary: How can you look forward when everything has ended? Even Jedi masters get in a depression/rut.





	Murderer

_**The rumors of a new murderer in the sands were unfortunate.** _

  


It was the silence around him on this planet that finally stilled the Force. He looked out over the rolling plane of silted sand and rocks, where fine grains of sand and ancient mud blew against him as he meditated in the predawn light.

He was never quite sure if the passing of his brothers into the Force produced the waves of agonized betrayal that helped destroy his stability. Or was it his own well-noted failures of attachment? Between his duties on the High Council and campaigns as a General, he had at least _met_ a majority of Jedi before the end. The turbulence had been so great, that too many presences were lost within the mess of the first days.

Months later, distant candles still winked out on occasion, but now it wasn’t clear if they were due to mishaps or new betrayals.

He preferred ignorance over knowledge, Force forgive him.

He still thought he had not felt the passing of some few he should not admit attachment to. Master Yoda’s passing could not have been missed. His GrandPadawan still glowed and he regretted his actions then, but he had no way to find her now.

The Sith apprentice had not passed, as much as he’d expected it, and that would be a debt of wrath he suspected would come due some day. They had been bound too close, too long.

Most of his friends he felt pass. Some he had seen their bodies and he could not pause to mourn or witness their pyres. He greatly doubted there had been any respect for their lifelong service from anyone within the new empire. He could honor and remember them, but that seemed hollow now, when bitter anger and hatred buried the memories of their good works.

How could earnest error create such hatred?

The nighttime chill gone and heat already rising with the first sun, he rose to check his perimeter, from old habit. Small lives already started to return to burrows or scant shade for relief as the second sun rose.

His aged vaporator functioned well today. He had to concentrate to ease the sand out of poorly sealed tubing almost weekly. After he finished that chore, one of his few treats was to visit the outskirts of the Lars farm. If the Force was willing, Owen was away and he could visit briefly with his brother’s son.

Monthly, he would visit some place like Anchorhead for some cautious trade, a sandy and work wanderer of the sands. At first he traded credits from other worlds and a few less useful items he brought with him, but soon enough he’d barter for one item as the Force hinted. Usually the next trip or the one after, those items were more desired. That let him gain tea and a suspiciously labeled flask of brandy, without attracting attention for hidden wealth.

He had a cache of Republic credit chips that may not be worth anything, aside from historians.

After his daily check of the vaporator, he visited the bantha herd as they settled to endure the day’s heat. They knew nothing of evil or Sith, only sun, food, and their herd.

That was a lesson, but for what he did not yet know.

By this time, the suns were getting high, and he retreated back into the coolest part of his primitive home. Nestled there deep into the soil, he lay on the bare dirt until his body cooled.

He might do a few katas later in the limited space, but most of those were for nighttime outside. Instead he meditated for guidance, seeking a more tangible, active hope.

The only council he received was a familiar wise whisper from far, far away for patience.

Those nights brought a more hasty trek to a Cantina, carrying a staff that worked well enough as a pike. Perhaps he was looking for trouble by going drinking, to _feel_ something again, even if it was cracked ribs. But it fed something the quiet sands could not answer.

It happened like this, the first time he needed more than the hush of the emptiness on the hot plain. He needed the sound of real voices, beings that still _lived_ in the now, deep within the iniquity of this world of despair and slavery.

When he entered the tawdry Cantina as the day’s heat was still rising, the dim room was nearly empty. Recordings filled the air for the empty stage as sand flaked loose he crossed the space.

The bartender looked at him with a sneer. “No water, if you’re not a paying customer.”

Throwing a few random currencies down, he only growled for whiskey.

No one asked his name, no one asked his business. By the time he’d finished the better part of a bottle, the barman was clearly considering him with greedy eyes. The room had filled to halfway, as laborers and mercenaries sought a cooler place to bide through the heat.

He continued drinking, only lightly feeling the affects, too late missing the occasional scolding once upon a time.

“Yer’s awfully old to be parking in a prime place, stranger.” The muscle was wearing some mismatched Mando armor pieces around his loud bravado as he stepped closer. His intent was clear: to pick the fight and rob the hermit’s body.

A partner was moving to a clear spot out of reach. Others were waiting like carrion, the Cantina silent for the show.

“Not at all. Leave me be, you will find _no profit_ here.”

That made the other laugh. “I don’t like fancy strangers breathing my cool air. That’s enough for me, and if-”

He wanted to make some clever remark, but there was no one to hear. Once he might have rolled his eyes at the almost scripted sequence. Now he just didn’t have the patience.

His staff nearly leaped into his hands and he swung the end in a long arc through the thug’s face, cracking the skull. Sliding closer, he grabbed a combat knife and threw it at the sniper, unnaturally accurate.

That was probably not fatal, but the failed attacker dropped the rifle and staggered away out into the heat.

No others were planning to continue the attack, and he sat back at the bar and took another drink. “The dragon bones said there was no profit.”

Someone was honestly upset, and someone else hushed them.

“Do the dragon bones speak often, wizard?” The bartender spoke more carefully now.

Playing into that might hold some amusement, and that cheered him more than the whiskey had. “The bones speak with the phases of the moons and the tides of the suns. Question not the wisdom of the suns.”

A worn mining droid dragged the body away.

Obi-Wan left in the cool of the night for the Wastes. Making up cryptic statements should relieve the boredom. He could rephrase things he’d never figured out from Master Yoda and watch them spin.

He grinned most of the way home.

**Author's Note:**

> This can be considered a prequel to "Spice Runs."
> 
> This is a Star Wars fanfic, and everything is owned by George Lucas and Disney with no infringement intended. The minimal plot is mine. I make no profit from this story.


End file.
